


Uneasy perspectives

by littleweedwrites



Series: Louniverse [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Leukemia, M/M, Multi, Parentlock, Series 4 never happened, Set in the 2020s
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-24
Updated: 2018-06-04
Packaged: 2018-10-23 15:56:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 2,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10722501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littleweedwrites/pseuds/littleweedwrites
Summary: Sherlock finds himself somewhere... he's just not sure where, or why?





	1. Horizontal

**Author's Note:**

> This will be multiple short chapters. It's set in a possible future based upon an AU which splits off after Series 3. This AU is the basis of an RP on tumblr which is how I came across this prompt.

Sherlock comes to a little abruptly, suddenly aware of consciousness, but rather than opening his eyes straight away he breathes in, tries to identify his surroundings; and draws a blank. He had expected a hospital, but his senses suggest nothing of the sort. No beeping equipment, no antiseptic smell… no pain. The last one pulls him up short. Since shortly before his leukaemia diagnosis pain has been a constant companion; his aching joints and wearing fatigue had soon been accompanied by stomach cramps, and a dull headache. And of course once chemo started those early aches had paled in comparison to the litany of side effects his sensitive transport had inflicted upon him. Pushing away an uneasy sense of panic he risks opening his eyes. 

He’s lying on his back on the floor in a dull grey room. Looking down the length of his body he’s fully clothed in his favourite suit, a pale shirt, dress shoes and his trusty Belstaff coat. None of this is right. The last thing he recalls wearing is his softest pyjama bottoms and a tee shirt. Plus his clothes fit, they’re not hanging on an all too thin frame, everything clings the way it used to. He reflexively moves his right hand to rub his head, his own nervous tell that he’s giving serious thought to something and his palm hits springy curls. He feels faint. His hair had been his greatest loss and yet here it was still firmly attached to his scalp. What the hell is going on?


	2. Landscape

He leans up against a blank wall and thinks back. He remembers starting throwing up, it had felt sudden despite the constant nausea. John checking his temperature, which caused a lot of panicked swearing; then him calling for an ambulance. Which meant it must have been Serious, because John said he would not do that unless necessary. Then it all gets a bit blurry and confusing… people- rushing, voices- lots of them, overlapping. He can identify some: John’s in commanding mode explaining exactly everything to the paramedics; oh, and their little girl Louise’s, close to panic and interjected with tic after tic as her brain supplies it’s own unique outlet for the stress she's experiencing; and his sister’s, Lillian, her soft tones trying to calm the anxious child supplying not empty platitudes but direct suggestions, the things she knows worked to calm him as a youngster, some of the same things he tells his daughter when she panics. 

Then… it goes black, blank, dark, cold for what feels like an eternity. The next memory is waking up here. In this place. Whatever this place is. It’s changed somehow, when he wasn't looking from boxy grey room to corridor, which is odd to say the least but for some reason he doesn't find this unexpected. It is still however not a place he recognises. The corridor is the same grey as the room, and lit by a long stretch of fluorescent bar lamps running down the centre of the ceiling. 

He decides to stand again stretch his legs, and see if he can figure out where he is. That’s when he notices that the part of the wall he was leaning against is now a door. 


	3. Infinite

It’s the only identifiable individual feature within reasonable eyesight of the whole infinitely stretching tunnel. He takes a good look at it. It’s mahogany with a top panel of heavily frosted glass, which unfortunately doesn't serve to show any silhouettes or light source beyond. And it doesn’t have a handle. Just a pushplate which suggests it opens inwards . He thinks to try an experiment. He walks briskly away from the door to the left and carries on walking. 

Within a minute he’s in front of another door. Identical. He could have sworn he it wasn't there before corridor doesn’t appear to curve so he should have been able to see it. He thinks this time he should adjust his method. As he’s apparently without a scarf he takes off his coat and puts it on the right side of the door. And walks again.

Again, the same result and this time certainly the same door. His coat folded by the right side of the door attests to that. Wherever he is doesn’t follow conventional rules of physics. And he’s starting to come to a startlingly uneasy conclusion. He just needs some more evidence. Having no other options he pushes open the door. 


	4. Counterpoint

His eyes adjust to the dim light of another hallway. But this one he recognises. The landing of his flat the door open to the living room and the sound of music playing. An opera, La belle Hélèn, Offenbach, of course. He realises as he steps into the room who he is likely to find.

And he’s right, his little girl sitting curled in his grey leather armchair. Her service dog on guard on the floor by her feet. She has a coat draped on her like a blanket, pulled up around her neck. His coat, identical twin of the one he has on. The one he left by the door; when did he put it back on? This serves to confirm what he had suspected; he knows now that hers is real, and his is some weird remnant. A memory. It feels real to him but it’s not. She shifts in the chair, and winces, obviously in pain. He reacts by instinct.

“Bee, sweetheart? What’s wrong?” The words fall from his lips and disappear into the ether. She can't hear him, and as he speaks Corra lifts her head expectantly at her mistress. 

“I’m fine, Corra,” her voice is thin, tired, and she speaks with a sharpness he hasn't heard before, “My knee’s playing up is all. You know that. It’d be okay if I hadn’t fallen when....” She trails off with an intake of breath.

He aches (‘With what?’ Supplies his consciousness, ‘You’re non-corporeal.’) at the catch in her voice, and he desperately wants to throw his arms around her and protect her. She sobs suddenly.

“This is ridiculous.” She sniffs. “I’m 12. I’m not a baby… I shouldn’t… It’s fine. I can-“

The sentence is cut off as she breaks into more sobbing. He can’t bear to watch so he slinks back through the flat to his bedroom, the door is firmly shut and unsure if he can open it he tests by pushing against it and falls through the wood.


	5. Blurred

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More confusion for Sherlock. And something he never wanted.

Yet another place, and another shift in angle. He fell forward, he should have been flat on his face, but he’s sitting in a booth at some pub that he recalls having been to exactly two and a half times. The half being when he was thrown out for some imagined misdemeanour as part of a ruse during a case.

 

He is facing towards the door and sees a familiar figure walk in; Lestrade. Greg. He looks worried, stressed. Which he shouldn’t be, Sherlock thinks as he only works part time now. Followed by… Molly, who looks just about to burst into tears any minute. He wonders why and then remembers; how could he forget? He’s not there. Maybe they’re upset because he’s gone; Molly also looks a bit angry, why? Their eyes scan the room, looking for someone, and finding their target they pass him. Somehow, even through the lively murmur of the pub he hears them slip into the booth behind him. What he doesn’t expect is the oh so familiar disgruntled sigh that reaches his ears next.

It’s John. Greg and Molly have come to the pub to find John and that can only mean the worst.

 

“What do you two want now?” His speech is raspy, but not slurred. Not that that means much. Greg speaks as if to confirm his fears.

 

“You can’t keep doing this, John.” Sherlock wants to move. To see John. But he feels like he can’t. How is this possible when he knows he isn’t real? He blinks and thinks really hard about it and he must move somehow. He’s standing watching them now. A little way off. John’s unkempt; he’s obviously not shaven for days. Sherlock waits, knowing he won’t like any of this. 

 

“I can do what the fuck I like, Greg. It’s none of your bloody business.”

 

Greg rolls his eyes. “Like Heck it isn’t. You’re not the only one affected by this, John, and you’re being utterly selfish. It’s barely past breakfast and you already stink of whiskey. The fact we’ve had to come here and find you is embarrassing.”

 

“No one asked you to!” John is shouting, and Sherlock can see how bloodshot his eyes are. Not just from the drinking. He’s been crying.

 

Molly’s head snaps up. She’s been quiet so far, looking down, unable to look at John directly. Now she’s firey. Sherlock remembers that anger, and this time appreciates it.

“How can you be so irresponsible? Of course someone asked us to find you. You’ve been missing for three days. Lou is distraught, John.”

 

“And I’m having a peachy time, Molly. Look. She’s better off without me…” John gets up to leave. 

 

“That’s not true, and you know it. She needs her Dad now, more than ever.”Says Greg. But John is already up, he brushes past Sherlock, or he would if Sherlock was really there.

 

Why are they just letting him go? Is no one going to stop him?

 

Greg is standing now. “Don’t be an idiot, John.” 

 

John stops, and turns, tears are streaming down his face but no one apart from Molly and Greg seem to care that there’s a sobbing man in the bar.

 

“Don’t. I– just don’t.” His voice is cracking now. Weary. “You know you can’t say that…”

 

“I know. Just come home? Please John?”

 

“Greg. I can’t. I’m sorry.” And then he leaves. Just like that. 

 

Sherlock doesn’t understand. John promised. He promised he wouldn’t do this. Drink. Leave their daughter Fatherless. Sherlock feels tears on his own cheeks, blurring the scene until it fades away.


	6. Whistful

When Sherlock finally feels able to reopen his eyes it's to the sight of another corridor; this one however is not nearly as bizarre and unnerving as the cold grey one. The gently sunlit walls are panelled at the bottom and painted with a soft yellow at the top. The place has an air of a stately home, mostly because that's exactly what it is; as well as being his own childhood home. Looking at the wall hangings, he knows if he goes to the end of the corridor and turns left he'll find the orangery. That phrase always confused him as a child, mostly because they'd long since given up growing oranges in it and they'd used it more as a sort of playroom lounge arrangement; somewhere to shunt the children off to so that adults could talk and where they wouldn't be any bother. When he had been very little Sherlock had loved lying on the rugs, basking in the warmth in the summer, an atlas laid out in front of him deciding where his next pirate adventure should take him.

However, the problem with his own exploring now is that he isn't entirely sure _when_ he is. This new place could be as unreal as he is; a memory. Or he could be privy to another window into the lives continuing without him. He'll just have to take a chance; it's not like he's affecting anything that happens.

He walks into the orangery.

What he doesn't expect to find is his sister sitting along a sofa by the window. She's leafing through a large box of photos in her lap, her face pensive, a glass of wine on the coffee table beside her. Occasionally, she smiles, with obvious tears in her eyes, and puts another photo onto a growing pile on the table. He moved closer and looks at the top picture. It's obviously of him. He's tiny, not more than two, and he's scowling wearing a little sailor suit at some boring family function; obviously uncomfortable in it he is tugging at the neck. Lillian tosses another photo onto the pile, it's from the same photo packet so was probably the same day. He's asleep hung over his father's shoulder, the sailor suit long since discarded. At least he's still wearing underwear. He remembers Lillian taking photos a lot in their childhood. These must be her own. This doesn't make sense though. They moved out after the fire, sold the house. She shouldn't be here. Doing this. Maybe this isn't real. 

She speaks, taking him out of his reverie. "Oh, Sherlock."

His own name makes him feel cold somehow. He knows that she isn't addressing him, and yet he wants to answer.

"What are are you like, eh? Sometimes, I wish... I wish. Oh sweetheart, I should have tried harder, made things easier for you. Too late for that now though, little brother..."

"Talking to yourself again, Lillian." It's Mycroft.

Suddenly, his sister being here makes slightly more sense. He has some long dim recollection of his brother telling him about a flat at the old house, one his parents had secretly kept after the renovation work, but at the time he hadn't much cared, being high out of his mind on something.

"I just- It's hard, Myc. I don't know what to do with myself. Thanks, for letting me go through these. I had no idea you'd kept them, or this place. It's strange being here... especially without Sherlock."

"It's not a problem. Are you taking those ones for Louise?" Mycroft raises an eyebrow at the pile, picking up the top one; the one with Sherlock asleep in his pants. "These are your choices? Hardly your best shots." 

"Ever critical, dear. I'm not taking them for the art, brother mine. They capture his essence. That's what she needs right now. Anyway, I've kept you long enough. I'll let myself out." She picks up the pile and puts them into a envelope, plucks the one Mycroft is holding out of his hand, slips it in with the others and then is gone from the room.

At least Mycroft seems to be coping. He looks the same as ever, but as Lillian leaves he visibly sags. Sherlock is accutely aware of how old his brother his. How much pressure he has upon him. He wants to, for once, be able to reach out. But as he does so the scene abruptly blanks out.

What now? Again?

 


	7. Interrupted

He’s temporarily untethered in the now absolute darkness, and for a second it feels like his lungs are on fire. He’s choking on something. Then a flash of lightning arcs across his vision, searing and blinding. And everything stretches even more. He’s certain he’s dead now, this is it. Soon he will wink out of existence.

That time never comes, he’s obviously tenacious. Or being tortured. Which he is not quite sure.

When the sparkles finally dim enough from his eyes, he discovers he is back where he started. In the grey room.

This time there’s someone at a desk, doing paperwork. Engrossed, they are silent until Sherlock clears his throat to announce his presence.

”Ah, Sherlock Holmes, how nice of you to join us. Take a seat, I’ll be with you in a minute.” The person doesn't look up at all, just waves their hand in the direction of a row of waiting room chairs which have somehow appeared behind Sherlock.

He sits. There is the usual pile of generic waiting room magazines in a pile next to him. Her resists the urge to pick one up and leaf through it. That he decides would show he's happy to wait. He is not happy to wait.

The person at the desk whistles tunelessly. It hurts his ears. How is he still subject to pain, even in this place which is akin to nowhere?

The tune resolves. It's Sonata No. 1 in g-minor, by Johann Sebastian Bach...

The person at the desk looks over and winks.

Moriarty. 

"You did say you'd be happy to shake my hand in Hell, Sherlock."


End file.
